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Wednesday, 28 September 2011

Not a goose in sightbut all around are signsof last night's roosting,half a mileof sea-smoothed sand studdedwith droppings, the dune edgeflecked with feathers,scatterings of breast downheaped in hollows, fillingthe small spacesbetween sand sedgeand sun-bleached driftwood,or trapped on tips of marram,a flurry of restless pennantsfluttering.

Light is a pinhead or a mirrored star they dropus towards, like larks in steel introduced to rock.All continuous song, deep song, transmitting finch.

Work mystifies.Hold us up against definite warm roof space.Wait for the planet to twitch.Breath, breathe, brain, men, main, methane, all the voicesburied in their eyes.Lemon yellow cravings when we turn to stone.

2Fleshy Elwell of the Lamps,(his wife had decampedyears ago)hums electro

magnetically, speaks hendiadys in the foul air of cabined nights,sucking coal egg shaped, the mind labyrinthine.

Is it a bit of fresh pippin? Seed time, fink sunflower, sip the dew it’s only awkward legislation.

He brews tea in a kettle that steams we delicate exiles, we’re inspired,filigreeing apprentices and veterans alike until hessian blankets our sky.Only the wheel and its umbilical feed this faked existence.

Wings make much of wild whilst we build musiccompatible with each colour.

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